Notes From the End of the World

by Donna Burgess

  Dad takes a drink of one of the last Coors Lights he has in a cooler of melted ice. He makes a face, and I can’t say that I blame him. I’ve tasted Coors Light and Bud Light and a few others, and it’s all shit. But sometimes even shit makes you feel comforted, I guess.

  “Okay. I looks like we’re going to make other provisions in the coming weeks,” he says. It sounds too formal. I want to tell him he’s not talking to an audience, just me and Mom and Nick. There’s no selling us.

  Mom sips what she has left and looks so unhappy that I want to get away from her.

  “Is leaving our home the answer, Ben?”

  “If what Nick says is true, the the only option. I’ve been reading on the internet about what’s happening in our neighborhoods. The military isn’t being discriminatory. I don’t know why, but I can’t afford to take the chance.”

  “So we run away, then? Leave our home like a bunch of cowards?” Mom slurs.

  “You have a better idea, Meg?”

  I want to take Nick’s hand, go upstairs, and hide until all of this is over and things are normal again. School’s open. Soccer’s stressful. Audrey’s a bitch. If I’ve learned anything it’s never complain over the little nuisances. There’s always somethings worse out there, whether you believe it or not.

  Mom scowls and doesn’t reply. Finally, I break the awkward silence and ask, “ So, what do we do?”

  “I’ve been looking at heading to the mountains. Mike had a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They never used it because his kids didn’t like it up there. They went a few times, but there was no internet connection and the cell service was spotty, at best. Those things don’t matter now. What does matter is that it’s way off the beaten path. With food, wood for heat, and the basic necessities, we could make it up there without worrying about the government coming in and taking us out.And the population is so low that the infected shouldn’t be an issue.”

  Mike was Dr. Jacobs, his kind face a million years in the past.

  Nick squeezes my fingers and sighs. “So, how do we get there?”

  “We pack all we can and travel at night,” Dad says. “We get out of town and then we stick to the back roads.”

  “But how do you know where Dr. Jacobs’ place is? We’ve never been up there,” I ask.

  “No. But he gave me a few things before he turned.” Dad moves to his battered briefcase. He flicks open the latch, and then removes a crumpled maps that looks to have been printed from a computer, and a key on a corkscrew keychain.

  …just before he turned…

  Is he wandering around, a drooling monster in the Pastures now?

  “We can get there. If we’re careful and smart, we can get there,” Dad says. He unfolds the map and traces a crooked line from the coast of South Carolina to the mountains of western North Carolina. “It’s an easy drive. We’ll travel to Greenville to refuel and gather more supplies, if we can. We’re looking at least six hours on the road, of we’re lucky. Maybe more. We’ll travel at night.”

  I cut my eyes at Nick. “We’ve been careful and smart so far,” I say, immediately regretting it. Not all of us have been so lucky.

  “It’s a bad idea, Ben,” Mom says, her words no more than a sigh. She runs her fingers through her matted hair, and I know at that moment that she’s lost all hope.

  “We must do this. There’s no other options,” Dad says, folding the crumpled map and placing it back into the briefcase.

  “Nick and I will start getting things packed into the X5,” I say. “We can do this, Mom.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything. I wonder if she hears me at all.

  Chapter 21

  March 1

  Cindy

  Mom pretends Audrey’s out with friends. I’m not sure if she believes it or if it’s just her way of coping. Either way, it scares the hell out of me. I believe she’s having some sort of breakdown.

  Nick and I managed to find two unopened bottles of red and a half-finished bottle of white for her when we went to gather supplies this morning, but her mood remains insufferable.

  “It’s stupid to leave here,” she bitches. “Audrey will be home and we’ll be gone. I’m not going. Absolutely. Not. Going.” She takes a long drink of the red. “Not until Audrey gets home.”

  I mention it to Dad, and he assures me she’ll be fine. It’s a reaction to the stress she’s encountered with Audrey’s transformation.

  I want to argue with him what we haven’t gone insane yet, so why is she so weak? But he looks so weary that I just nod and let him rest.

  Several nights ago, I managed to pry from Dad the reason why he stays at the hospital so long. I’d assumed he was hiding from what our home and our lives had become. Mom’s a drunk. Audrey’s a zombie.

  I’m not sure what I am anymore.

  But Dad’s told me he has two patients remaining in the hospital. Both are in their final days, but he’s not the kind of man who leaves those who depend on him. He isn’t an oncologist, but all the cancer docs in town are either deceased, changed, or just gone.

  Dad and I are close, and some things don’t have to be spoken aloud. He won’t leave these patients behind, but he may end up “helping” them out.

  It’s pretty shitty having survived a worldwide epidemic just to be dying of cancer, but things are pretty shitty all the way around, these days.

  ***

  The helicopters are flying over at less frequent intervals now—maybe the “authorities” have become convinced that Sawgrass Flats is a ghost town now. For the most part, it’s true. Nick and I have managed to get enough canned and instant foods, batteries, medicines, and other first aid supplies that will hold us for at least six months. Mom’s X5 has been pulled into the garage, so bandits or soldiers can’t see how’s it’s packed to the hilt with valuables.

  It’s funny. I never imagined people might get to the point where they’d kill for a package of twenty-five-cent Ramen noodles.

  Once the BMW is packed, Nick and I return to my bedroom. Mom’s passed out on the sofa where Nick normally sleeps, so we leave her. And frankly, I have no interest in seeing her, anyway. Dad’s sprawled on the bed on top of the covers, still in his lab coat, snoring lightly.

  “Shhh,” I whisper, taking Nick’s hand, leading him to my bedroom. Nick closes the door behind us, and I flip on the lamp next to my bed.

  “So?” he says a little sheepishly, the lamplight making his pale skin appear warm. He needs a haircut—his hair is nearly to his shoulders, but still thick and silky. I love touching it, and when he climbs onto the bed next to me, I plunge my fingers into it and pull him to me.

  He returns my kisses eagerly, his work-roughened fingertips caressing and scratching my cheek.

  I’ve been wanting him for days. And whether he likes it or not, Dad’s has all but given us permission to have sex, providing us with a jumbo box of condoms (ribbed for her pleasure, by the way, whatever that means).

  “You have that bottle of Jaeger up here?” he asks, after a moment.

  “It’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser.”

  Nick crawls for the end of the bed like a silly kid, and bounds over to the dresser. He opens the middle drawer instead and begins sorting through my underwear.

  “Not that drawer, jackass!” I protest, but not before he’s taken out an especially lacy and feminine pair of pink bikinis.

  “Wow! Why don’t you wear these sometime?”

  I snatch them from him, my face burning. “Because, they feel terrible.”

  I’m a cotton boyshorts kind of girl. It’s all about comfort for me. Besides, style is low on the list lately. I don’t want to have to stop and dig my panties out of my ass while fleeing Shamblers.

  “They’re hot,” he argues. “Hell, they’re turning me on and you’re not even wearing them…yet.”

  “Please!” I shove the panties back into the drawer, then bend down and find the bottle of Jaeger both excited and a little frightened to drink anything that strong.
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br />   I unscrew the top and take a long gulp, trying too hard to be bold. The taste is like licorice and Robitussin cough syrup and would’ve been better had it been chilled. Either way, I swallow it without gagging and pass the bottle to Nick. He downs a long drink like a pro. A nice play-off, I determine—he’s no more a pro than I am.

  “It’s bad,” I say, looking up into his eyes.

  “An acquired taste,” he whispers. Than he leans forward and kisses me, soft and tentative at first, just like the first time we kissed. The sugary drink glues our lips together. I taste his mouth, his tongue, warm and silky sweet, my hands coming up, caressing his chest through his t-shirt. His heart beats so fast that it frightens me at first, until I realize my own heart is beating even faster.

  Then he breaks the kiss and takes another drink if the liquor. I do the same, and the flavor isn’t as bad the second time around. I place the bottle on the dresser behind us. My head is spinning already, and my stomach doesn’t feel quite right. Nick kisses me again, his hard body pressing against me. I’m so aware of how he feels…lower. The hard knot there, pushing against my thigh, my crotch. Part of me wants to pull away, afraid.

  But part of me wants to feel more of him. I want to know what a boy is really like. I push myself against him, sighing into his hot mouth.

  Nick pushes me back toward my bed and I just go, like some silly, mindless robot. I lie back and he is on top of me, his mouth on my mouth, on my throat. The knot in his jeans is larger, burning, desperate. The place between my legs is the same. We thrust against each other, aching more and more. We’re eager, yet frustrated by the confines of our clothes. Nick’s hands explore my stomach under my shirt and bra. I smell his hair as it falls on my face, a mixture of sweat and some kind of men’s shampoo. My fingers move to the waist of his jeans, daring to slip lower, brushing the brittle hairs there.

  “Should I get that…box?” I don’t want to say what the box is, for some reason.

  Nick pulls back, resting on his hands above me. His face is beautiful in that moment, the light soft and warm orange, his hair too long and falling on his forehead and his cheeks. He considers things for a moment, then bends low and kisses me again.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?” Why am I so bummed? “Don’t you want to do this?”

  I want to do it, to get past it. I want to be beyond the fear and wonder of what the first time holds. I’ve heard so many things—pain, disappointment, sadness. Distance. I want it over with because if it’s not now, one of us might not be here tomorrow.

  Time’s limited.

  “I’m sorry, Cindy, but not now. Not like this.”

  “Like what?” I ask, trying to hide my annoyance.

  “Drinking. I don’t want to do this while we’re drinking.”

  I’m getting it. Yeah, apparently I’m not superhuman. I get slow when I drink.

  “All right,” I whisper.

  Nick rolls off of me and we stare up at the ceiling.

  “You’re not mad, are you?”

  “No.” I lie.

  His hand finds mine, and he weaves his fingers between mine.

  “I want to do this right. Do you understand what I mean?” he says, turning his face to mine.

  “Not really, but it’s okay,” I tell him.

  “There’s only this one time. I want to do this the right way because it matters.”

  It matters. I don’t know how to respond. So, I just squeeze his fingers between mine and try not to cry. I wasn’t sure anything mattered in the world we now live in except just surviving.

  After a while, we fall asleep on my bed, fingers still intwined. Outside, a shambled screams out, and dream it’s Audrey, still screaming through the walls of her bedroom.

  Chapter 22

  March 7

  Cindy

  Mom is gone.

  I don’t know what else to say about it. She was gone when I woke. Dad had already left by the time I noticed, hiding behind helping the handful of people who are clinging to something that’s not quite life, but not death, either.

  The gun from Dad’s desk drawer is gone also.

  I can’t say I’m surprised by this. The fact is, I really don’t know how I feel about it. I don’t know if I feel anything at all.

  I don’t mean to come across as cold, but it’s like I’m just numb. Numb, blind, and stumbling around inside some terrible dream from which I cannot wake.

  Nick and I search the neighborhood, but there’s no sign of Mom. She left us on foot, with only the clothes she had on. She didn’t take her heavy coat, although the temperature’s not climbing above fifty most days. The weather in March has always sucked—a tease of spring one day, sleet the next. The nights are frigid and miserable and Mom’s cold-natured like me.

  Dad doesn’t know. The cell connection is shaky, but it doesn’t matter. I haven’t tried to call him. Not yet.

  Nick and I walk the empty streets of Sawgrass Flats, no longer very concerned over the military flyovers. Ground patrols are infrequent, at least around here. Maybe Nick’s idea of marking the houses as “cleared” worked to keep the soldiers out.

  The sun beats down, a kiss of warmth on the tops of our heads, balancing the chilly breath of late winter that numbs our cheeks, noses, and chins.

  The stink of rot and death has either diminished, or else I’ve become so used to it that I no longer notice.

  Nick carries a baseball bat, and I’m just looking around at the dead houses, the dead lawns. A little dog barks. It sounds close, but the animal has become too shy to come out and be seen.

  “Do you think she went out for supplies?” Nick asks. He knows better than that, but he’s trying to shield me from more pain. I appreciate it, but it’s not realistic or helpful. It’s just pretend.

  I shrug. “She’s never lifted a finger to help. Not since Audrey got sick.” I sound angrier than I intend, but I am angry. Nothing’s mattered to Mom since Audrey was bitten. Dad and I always played second fiddle to Audrey.

  Sure, it’s the same way with Dad and me, but he didn’t show it. He didn’t rub it in their faces and make them feel excluded from some sort of fabulous, secret club like Mom and Audrey did.

  I’m a bitter bitch, okay?

  I want to believe Mom selected one of these empty houses. She went inside and just finished things off.

  I could see that being her way. She’d know that we wouldn’t search every house, every closet, or attic. She’d make the choice of going where we wouldn’t find her. What she went to do was a private thing. Secret, and she would find a secret place to do it. Plus, she’s too goddamned vain to leave herself where we might find her—looking less that perfect.

  Frankly, it sucks that she’s taken our gun to use it for her own selfish purposes.

  Nick takes my hand, and I let him although I don’t really feel like holding his hand or talking. I want to blow up, and be pissed off at the world for being so shitty. I want to be pissed off at Mom for leaving, and at Dad for not being able to save us like I always imagined he could. I’m pissed at Audrey for first being a bitch and then a Shambler.

  I’m pissed at myself for being pissed.

  Worse than anything else, I’m pissed at myself for crying, which is what I’m suddenly doing. It breaks like a stupid floodgate and I just sink to the pavement, nearly pulling Nick down with me.

  “Cindy!” Nick cries, dropping to his knees next to me. “Are you okay?”

  He means physically, I know that, but I can’t help but snap at him.

  “No, I’m not fucking okay! My Mom’s gone! My sister’s a zombie and my Dad’s losing it, I’m pretty sure.”

  Nick take my face in his hands, the palms of his fingerless gloves warm and soft, the pads of his fingers brushing my cheeks, rough as sandpaper. He makes me look at him although I don’t want to. I don’t want him to see me blubbering like one of those girls at school who always cried at the drop of a hat.

  “Don’t look at me,” I whisper, my lip
s and eyes feeling too hot and swollen.

  “Don’t hide your tears from me,” Nick says. He smudges them away with his thumb, smiling, his own eyes shining with tears.

  “Please. It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid. It’s not! Do you think I don’t cry? Shit, I cry over nearly every night, Cindy. On the sofa of your living room, lying in the dark. Sometimes, I scream into the sofa cushions. I get it out. It’s the only way I get through the days sometime.”

  “You do?” I’m not sure I believe him. He’s never shown any signs of being nothing less than perfect. Strong, level-headed. Awesome.

  He smiles. “Of course. What? Do you think I’m some kind of tough-ass?”

  “Sort of,” I whisper, blushing.

  “Well, I’m not. And neither are you. Face it.” It stands and pulls me to my feet. “Come on.”

  Slowly, we begin moving down the street again. I lean into his side, loving his warmth. But I still feel helpless.

  “We’re not going to find her, you know. At least, not alive.”

  “I know. But it’s only right to pretend we might, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so,” I agree. Maybe it is right to pretend. It’s the only way we can retain some facade of humanity when so much of it is already gone.

  ***

  I find the note before Dad gets home. Mom left it on the fridge, stuck there on the door between photos of me and Audrey—some recent, and others when we were quite small. It’s secured by a little magnetic heart that bears the legend, “World’s Best Mom.”

  I don’t like what it says, and decide quickly that Dad doesn’t need to know what Mom thought of him. It’s best to let her go. It help him let her go.

  I’m afraid of how he’s going to take it. At what point will he finally break? Or is he already broken and just going through the motions of surviving, like most of the ones who remain?